


Words Become You

by Trish47



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Bad Poetry, Canon Age Difference, Deception, Dom/sub Undertones, Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Hotel Sex, Kissing, Lingerie, Magic, Masturbation, Open to Interpretation, Plot Twists, Poetry, Politician Ben, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Rough Sex, Sexual Tension, Sincere apologies to Mr. William Shakespeare, Smut, Something Isn't Right Here, Succubi & Incubi, Supernatural Elements, Swearing, dark fic lite, indiscretions, sugar Daddy vibes, virginity discussion, waitress Rey
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-31
Updated: 2020-07-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 07:02:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,985
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25619311
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Trish47/pseuds/Trish47
Summary: During the summer, peddlers sell all kinds of knock-offs and souvenirs on Chicago's sidewalks. Ben ignores them all, except one: a sign advertising a poet for hire. It leads him off the streets and into the presence of a hazel-eyed temptation he can't resist.
Relationships: Rey/Ben Solo
Comments: 13
Kudos: 57
Collections: A Picture is worth 1000 Words - PL Summer Exchange





	Words Become You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [CoinToYourWitcher](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CoinToYourWitcher/gifts).



> Please mind the tags. This is not going to end with fluff or a straight HEA. I'm calling this dark fic lite, but it is an entirely new area for me. If something makes you uncomfortable and it isn't tagged, please let me know and I'm happy to add the appropriate marker. If you'd still like to know more on what to expect in this fic and don't mind spoilers, see the end note.
> 
> All that said, I did have fun writing this fic and adore CoinToYourWitcher's moodboard that inspired it!

The height of tourist season tested his resolve to continue living in the city. Bodies wearing too little clothing and _much_ too little deodorant created traffic on sidewalks, stopping unexpectedly to listen to blues music tumbling out of downtown's ubiquitous bars. Voices chattered and threw laughter at passersby like Cubs’ pitches, striking hard against his eardrums.

It made his evening commute a fucking nightmare. Sure, he could Uber—in no universe would he take the El during the summer—but his walk from the office to his apartment was the type of activity his therapist prescribed.

_Go out amongst the people. Be in the moment. Choose spontaneity._

It was the last suggestion that gave him the most trouble. He lived by a schedule, and it had served him well for the last eleven years. His ability to plan and execute, to account for every move he made, had contributed to a satisfying political career. No one else in the country could brag that they’d been elected Chief Fiscal Officer just two years out of their graduate program. Ignoring distractions and controlling urges to veer from the path had paid off. Why would he want to fuck with that?

But he didn’t have a choice. The throngs of tourists forced him to slow down and measure his steps. He tried to inhale air untainted by the stench of sweat and sunblock mixed with clouds of cigarette smoke and weed fumes. His eyes traveled over signs: bold marquees, neon alcohol advertisements, band flyers stapled or taped to any available surface.

His knee collided with one out of his visual field, a sign which some fucking idiot had placed smack in the middle of the sidewalk. “You’ve gotta be shittin’ me.” He grabbed the top of the chalkboard A-frame, snapped it together, and dragged it against the eatery’s brick wall.

“POET FOR HIRE” it screamed in white slanted bubble letters. A smaller message clarified that the writer in question used a “pay what you want” system—a scheme to con people out of more money than they’d likely pay as a flat fee. How much was a poem worth anyway?

His blood pressure rose. These kinds of pandering tourist traps made him want to contact his connections at the police department to issue citations and warrants. He’d slap a pair of cuffs on any criminal who thought they could evade paying taxes with under-the-table side hustles like this wordsmith.

Ben’s chest heaved as he stood outside the pub. He should move on, forget about the sign and this place. The crowds had already delayed him and an extra pitstop wasn’t on his schedule.

The bubbled letters seemed to grow against the blackboard, triggering his curiosity. What imbecile would put a sign in the middle of a walkway? Who would buck the IRS to make some extra cash? A little old woman with librarian glasses? A Hemingway wannabe? Some fresh fuck out of college who still romanticized the starving artist bullshit?

Maybe he could capitalize on this situation after all. Satisfy his urge to uncover the poet and listen to his therapist.

“Spontaneity,” he muttered, pushing the glass door open.

* * *

A rough finger grazed the back of her thigh as she leaned over the table to set down the last pint. Her reflexive flinching at such unwanted contact had disappeared the second week of working at the tavern. Instead, she straightened up and plastered on her most charming smile. “Can I get you fine lads anything else?”

Sixty-forty were today’s running odds one of the men would answer with something vulgar.

_I’d like those legs over my shoulders, sweet thing._

_A slice of your cherry pie for dessert, little lady._

_Why don’t you sit on my lap, cutie?_

The handsy geezer—easily old enough to be her grandfather—tipped the scales further out of balance. “Show me what’s under the kilt, darlin’.”

It was a mockery of the traditional garment, a flared plaid number that barely covered the curve of her ass. The slightest wind from the door opening would let everyone know just what she had going on underneath, though her standard bottoms were far from scandalous. The lace edges and silky texture inched them away from the nefarious "granny panty" label, but the idea of wearing anything except full coverage underwear made her blush. The only pair she owned from Victoria's Secret had been a present from her best friend, "just in case" she found someone in the big city.

Rey batted her lashes at the man and remembered she lived off tips. “I wouldn’t want to give you a heart attack before your dinner’s up.”

Spinning away from the table, she spotted Kaydel seating a new patron in her section. He chose to keep his back to the wall and unbuttoned his tailored suit jacket before sitting. He actively frowned as Kaydel attempted to pass him a menu, which didn’t make much sense unless he already knew what he wanted. Considering it was the first time Rey could remember seeing him—and it would be hard to forget a man of his size wearing a Gucci suit—that didn’t line up.

Kaydel’s blonde brows spoke for themselves as she and Rey passed one another. _What the fuck is this asshole’s problem?_

Rey had the unfortunate business of finding out.

She stopped in front of the table and jutted out her hip as she raised her pad to take his order. “Welcome to Top-It-Off Tavern. Would you like to hear our specials? Or can I get you started with a drink. We have ten beers on tap, but you just missed happy hour.”

When he remained silent, her eyes rose from the paper to see him staring at her. Had it come from Mr. Handsy, she’d have called the look a leer. But his lustrous brown eyes scanned over her with a different kind of hunger. It made her own mouth go dry.

“I know what I want.”

Yes, indeed. That growl in his voice said he knew exactly what he wanted. She should narrow her eyes or cross her arms—anything that would ward off his charged words and expression. So why the fuck did she sway a step forward and tilt her head like she was waiting to hear his deepest desires?

“Coffee. Black.”

Two words and her mind spun. _Monday grind, your skin on mine, submersed in tar, forever entwined._

“You do serve coffee don’t you?”

Shit. She’d zoned out. Inspiration had never struck her so suddenly, or with such vivid imagery. She thought she'd lost it forever.

"Yeah! Of course. Coming right up.” She started to turn, then whipped back to his table. Her miniskirt flared with the swivel, a detail his eyes didn’t miss. Rey’s dry mouth became a choking hazard as she tried to swallow. “Would you like something to go with that? Chocolate cake? Blueberry scone? Biscotti?”

“You sell biscotti at an Irish pub?”

Her face pulsed with heat. Oops. He was right to question it: they didn’t sell those here. What was wrong with her? “No. We don’t. I meant biscuits.”

“Biscuits?” The hint of amusement in his voice amplified the rumbles of his low timbre. His was a swoon-worthy voice.

_Lumberjack jack jack, whisper as I fall back back back, hear me roar roar roar, I want more more more._

She defaulted. “Is there something I can get you?”

He leaned back on the bench, hands dropping beneath the table to rub the tops of his thighs. There had to be enough room for two of her to fit between his spread legs.

Clearing his throat, he smiled when she dragged her eyes away from his crotch. “Coffee. Black.”

It felt like he’d just chastised her. Suddenly she was back in Mr. Ander’s class, grappling for any kind of intelligible answer after being caught writing poems in her notebook instead of listening to the class discussion. But she’d never wanted Mr. Ander to bend her over his knee.

Before more color could rise to her cheeks, she nodded and stepped away, retreating to the bar, the voice in her head murmuring verses.

_Dark eyes rake my spine like fingers pluck daisies, vertebrates become petals of yeses and noes, until I’m bare._

* * *

Against his lips, the gas-station adjacent, medium roast was tepid at best. It was the second time she’d let his cup grow cold, and it had nothing to do with how busy she was. Between seven and nine, dinner service lulled before the pre-partiers arrived; she had only one table of old men to wait on.

Ben watched them. Though he sat too far away to hear their conversation, his knuckles went white around his mug when he saw one man’s finger flick the edge of her skirt. The ruffle flipped up to show a flash of white against tan. Snow white. Pure.

His dick responded before he could talk himself down. He shifted in his seat and muttered into his terrible coffee. “She’s too young.”

Too innocent, too, considering the way she flushed when she finally brought a glass carafe for his refill.

“Are you sure I can’t get you anything else?” she asked shyly, holding the steaming pot close to her chest. “You’re going to get an ulcer drinking coffee this late. It isn’t even decaf!”

“I’m going to be up late.”

Hazel eyes hazarded from the mug to his face. “Taking a red eye?”

A slow grin dimpled one of his cheeks. “No.” This time the liquid scalded his bottom lip, but he didn’t flinch. He smoothed his tongue over the burn, observing how she tracked the movement. “I'm going to stick around until the buzzards leave.”

“Buzzards?”

A minute nod indicated the far table. “They look at you like you’re fresh meat.”

And she was. Her ass and toned thighs more than made up for her barely there tits—no matter how much her push-up bra attempted to make them appear otherwise beneath her uniform.

“They aren’t the only ones.”

Her voice was so low it hardly registered. Ben lifted his gaze to meet hers dead on. While her lips were parted and her cheeks pink and pretty, she held eye contact with him until he understood.

So, maybe she wasn’t as oblivious to his stares as he’d guessed.

He spoke in a calm, assured tone. “I’d like to order something else.”

“I’m afraid I’m not on the menu.”

Spunky. The hint of mischievousness intrigued him all the more. Then it hit him. Of fucking course. She had to have a significant other. Young, beautiful women like her didn’t want a stuffy old politician in a suit. “Ah. You're taken.”

She laughed, the harsh sound startling him. “No. No, no, no,” she echoed, shaking her head. “Not even close. I've never been taken.”

He felt his own cheeks heat over that. Was she implying what he thought she was implying? The memory of her white panties flashed behind his eyes.

"I see."

“Look," she began around a toothy smile. “I’m going to give the buzzards their check, and then I’m going to come back with something special for you.”

This sounded promising.

* * *

The bastards stiffed her. Practically, anyway. Five bucks on a two hundred and fifty dollar tab—her biggest of the night—would hardly cover the El ride to the basement she was renting for the summer from Craigslist Craig, who she was pretty sure only left the house to buy meth. Rey seethed, thinking about all the comments and drunken advances she’d had to tolerate. And for what? Bupkus.

Tossing glasses and dishes into the plastic busser bin less carefully than common sense advised, she muttered curses under her breath. Instead of sliding into the rounded booth to wipe down the far side of the table, Rey lifted herself up to her tiptoes and reached as far as she could.

Clattering and a harsh “sonofabitch” made her straighten, casting her eyes over her shoulder.

Mr. Gucci was standing and navigating his long legs around the brown liquid dripping from the side of the table. She raked her eyes over the front of his expensive suit. It appeared dry, which was a pity. Helping him clean the spot would have let her touch him with an excuse.

Still, she hurried over, grabbing a fresh cloth from the bar on the way. Most of the coffee had spilled next to his saucer, though she couldn’t ignore the small puddle on the floor. Rey sopped up the mess on the table, then dropped to her knees to finish the job.

“I’m sorry.”

She tossed up her head and flashed him a smile. “Usually it’s the whiskey lovers with the butterfingers.”

He crouched in front of her, dark hair brushing the table’s underside no matter how much he hunched. Once again, his size rocked her. His torso was wide enough to be the table above them.

_Let me slide along your alpine slopes, drift among your fabled banks of crisp-white flakes. Skid, swerve, snake along your rugged torso while you tumble head over foot, raging as you reach but never quite catch me._

His hand caught her wrist in slow-motion, slipping around the slender curve and tightening. The strength in his grip mirrored how hard her gut clenched. “I assure you, I can hold onto things without a problem.”

Rey’s eyes fluttered closed. The tension in her abdomen traveled lower. She bet she could make his fingers slippery if he kept touching her. Thankful that the table shielded her rosy cheeks, she said, “You make me want to write. I’m a poet.”

“The sign outside is yours?” He smiled. “Of course it is.”

“May I write one about you?”

“How much do you charge?”

Her hand came up to cover her mouth, blocking her giggle. Heat burned against her fingertips. “You’re making it sound like something else.”

Coffee-hued eyes became black as licorice. “I can pay you well.”

She had no doubt a man wearing a six thousand dollar suit could give her whatever she asked. And the offer did tempt her. A few hundred bucks wouldn't hurt, and she'd finally be able eat enough to feel full. That hadn't happened in. . .well, in years.

“I’m sure you can," she returned instead, knowing she should fight the urge, "but this one is on the house.” She swiveled her hips back and forth, letting her pleats tickle her thighs as she looked up at him and held out her hand. “Is that okay?”

He hesitated. “I’d like to compensate you in some way.”

The outstretched palm became a finger at the corner of her mouth. Rey cocked her head and hummed in thought, though it was easy enough to come up with an answer. She delayed responding so that his eyes would continue sweeping over the tanned skin her uniform displayed. She stopped swaying, mourning the slight friction the motion had caused between her legs.

She allowed herself a morsel to feed the dreams she was certain she'd have tonight: “How about your name?”

* * *

His lips parted to answer her. Nothing slipped out except air. A long steady breath gave him a moment to consider his options. Maybe he should stop this exchange before it went anywhere else. Pay for his coffee, leave her a generous tip, and be on his way home. What could he possibly gain from lingering here and ogling her while she composed a poem in his honor?

A good fuck. That’s what.

He closed his eyes and shut off the impulse. The logistics were shit. Where would it happen? At this restaurant in the bathroom or in a supply closet somewhere against the wall? No, the setting wasn’t right for what he wanted to do. If she really was a virgin like he suspected, he could do better than have her cling to a stall door. Would he invite her home? Hell no. Discretion was something his building’s doorman possessed in volume, but that didn’t mean someone on the street wouldn’t recognize him. It didn’t mean his neighbor across the hall wouldn’t side-eye him and his youthful guest.

They’d need neutral space. A car. A hotel. Something.

“You could give me a fake one.”

He’d been quiet too long. Shit. Here he was visualizing ways to hitch her sun-kissed limbs around him when all she wanted was to write him a damn poem. For the price of his name.

“Ben Solo,” he stated. “And that’s not fake.”

Her nose wrinkled with her smile. “Solo sounds the _tiniest_ bit fake.”

So, she didn’t know him by name. That wasn’t a complete surprise. Not many people in the city could name Chicago's mayor, let alone the financial manager.

“Well, Mr. Solo—”

“Ben,” he insisted.

Her hand extended toward him again, this time to shake. Though it made him laugh, he obliged her by enfolding it in his own and bringing his free hand to the back of hers. An intimate handshake, one meant to win votes. . .and interest.

“Ben,” she repeated. “I’m Rey. Step into my office.”

She led him to a small table near the kitchen—not exactly prime real estate in a restaurant on account of the clanking cookware and chatty kitchen staff drowning out the subtle Celtic music. Along the wall, she’d covered the bench seat with pillows in various shapes and colors. A green cloth covered the tiny table which held a typewriter that appeared to date back to the 50’s, if not before.

“Where’d you dig up that old thing?” he asked as she squeezed behind the table to sit in front of the machine.

“I inherited it from my grandfather.” She waved at the seat across from her. “Come, sit.”

Ben glanced at the chair, then fixed her with a stare as he edged passed it to sit on the bench as well. With the two of them together in the shallow alcove, hardly any space existed. Good. He settled in, widening his legs beneath the table and resting his hands on his thighs. He could feel her pleated skirt against the tips of his fingers. All he’d need to do was stretch them a little further down to feel her skin. And if he shifted his hand to the left, he’d be able to stroke her through her white panties. If things got as far as he'd like them to, that is.

“I don’t let other people read over my shoulder.” Hers were rigid as she caressed the keys like a cat sat in front of her instead of a typewriter.

Ben leaned in so close his breath moved the wisp of hair dangling next to her ear. “I’m not ‘other people’ though, am I?”

She turned her head, bringing her lips to the curve of his chin in a deliberate movement. Little minx. “No. You’re special.”

That was a statement he’d heard only a few times in his life, and none of them had paid off as well as this one felt it might. His eyes were drawn to her pink mouth. Her lips looked soft. He’d love to do so many, many things with that pretty mouth of hers, and something told him she knew it.

Was this poetry thing all a ruse? Did she just want to get him alone? Deciding to find out, he skimmed his nose along her hairline and whispered, “How about that poem?”

She smiled and aligned her fingers on the keys. “Of course.”

She closed her eyes and kept them that way, perhaps as a part of her artsy scam, perhaps to show off her skill. In either case, she typed. Black ink marked the crisp white page. The words flew from her fingertips without pause for thought or the need to delete a spelling error.

_Magnetism. That’s what they call it when you look at me. Stirring forces with your eyes, pulling me in. Light touches dark, dark touches light. North and south. Opposites in all ways but this clink, this metallic kiss._

_You, my knight in black armor. I see beyond the visor. Inside, at your core, you burn brighter than a star. Look at me again. Tug me near—until we’re locked. Together, the bond too strong to render._

When she’d finished, she pulled the paper from the carriage and declared it the first draft of a true masterpiece.

“What do you mean by draft?” he asked. “Don’t I get to take it with me?”

She snactched the paper away from his fingers before he could pinch it from her grasp. “No!”

Her vehemence made him laugh. “Isn’t it my poem?”

“It is,” she allowed, folding the paper and carefully tucking it down her shirt. Ben was too distracted by the glimpse of her satin pushup to care about having the poem withheld. “But it needs work. You’ll have to come back.”

“Oh, will I?” Now he understood her ploy. He rather liked it, even if it meant waiting. Exploring this connection between them could be fun. Spontaneous, in a way—just like his therapist suggested.

Rey's hand dropped to her lap and slowly walked across to his, inching higher until she found the bulge in his pants. Ben sucked in a breath as she gave it a gentle, almost tentative, stroke.

“Maybe every night,” she murmured as he swelled even more beneath her touch. “Until I’m satisfied.”

* * *

He was like clockwork. Every night that week, he came in at 7:02, sat in the same seat, and ordered a black coffee. He’d wait until her tables were empty or Rey asked Kaydel to take some over, then follow her to the typewriter. Each time they were together, Rey’s hunger for him grew; her stomach twisted and turned with each nibble of his attention: a kiss on Tuesday, a brazen grope on Wednesday, a hand cupping her damp panties on Thursday. Pages and pages poured out of her when she sat with him, on him.

“I need more of you,” she told him on Friday, tired of denying herself. Literally. After her shifts, at home in bed, she'd lie awake for hours fantasizing about having him inside her.

He smiled against her neck. “Do you have a place?”

For a moment she considered telling him about her basement room. But that wouldn’t do for her first time. “No.”

He needed no elaboration. Maybe he assumed she had roommates. Maybe he thought she still lived with her parents. For all he really knew about her, she could be living in a halfway house or on the street.

It didn’t matter to him. On Saturday he tucked the key to a hotel room in her bra, tweaking her nipple before he withdrew his hand. “I’ll be there Monday, after work."

“I'll switch my shift."

"Take the day off." He silenced her protest with a kiss, using teeth on her bottom lip. “Spend the day and treat yourself. There’s room service and an in-house spa.”

“Sounds expensive,” she said, grinding her ass over his pants the way she’d discovered he liked.

“Everything's linked to the room. Just give them the number. I'll handle it."

Turned out, he had things handled more than she imagined.

When she arrived at the swanky skyscraper, she was taken aback. Craigslist Craig's townhome—attic to basement—had nothing on the sprawling penthouse suite. Ben didn't skimp on anything. The kitchen was stocked with artisan cheeses, vibrant fruits, and cured meats. Pricey bottles of alcohol her peers had pilfered from their parents to bring to parties stood ready for her on the bar cart.

But it was what she found in the master bedroom that made her thirst. Two towers of boxes wrapped in gold ribbon waited for her on the bed with a simple note that made her stomach flip:

**_Pretty things for a pretty girl._ **

Indeed, they were beautiful pieces of lingerie. Delicate. Fragile. Is that what he saw when he looked at her? Rey supposed it didn't help that every time he pressed against her or nibbled the base of her neck she felt as though she'd come undone, unwinding as easily as the lingerie's ties would if tugged.

She'd have to show him she was made of something stronger.

But that didn't mean she couldn't indulge in a few soft whimsies. A tiger's claws could cut through lace, after all.

His thoughts drove him to distraction at work. While he'd tried to encourage her to send pictures of her new wardrobe via text, Rey had declined. She didn't want to ruin the surprise.

He'd imagined her, of course. On the boutique's website, he'd paused on each set and let his mind's eye fill the sheer cups with her tiny breasts and trace the garters down her toned thighs. If his dick didn't respond to the mental image, he moved on to the next set of straps and filigree.

What would she wear for him tonight?

That question kept him half hard under his desk until he finally sent his office home an hour early and Ubered across town. There would be no long walks or tourist traffic to detain him this evening.

He found her at the typewriter she'd toted along, legs pretzeled on the desk chair. She was draped in a black silk robe that showed too little of her body. A bowl of half-eaten strawberries rested in the space she'd made between her thighs.

Ben brushed her hair aside and kissed her neck, then hooked his finger underneath the flimsy fabric to press another at the juncture where throat met shoulder. Rey hummed contentedly beneath his unspoken hello.

“Getting anywhere on your masterpiece?” His other hand reached around and plucked a piece of fruit from the bowl, this one still whole.

Rey tilted her head, her soft waves bunching against the front of his button-up. Ben bit the strawberry in half, chewing thoughtfully while his free hand rubbed along her exposed throat, caressing her jawline. “I was waiting for my muse to feed me.”

There was something both naive and ertoic about the way she said it, the way she followed the comment by opening her mouth and extending her tongue like she was waiting for grapes to descend from the sky. Ben made do with the strawberry, depositing the remaining half on her tongue and watching it disappear into her smile. Barely giving her time to chew and swallow he bent over her for a possessive kiss, fingers circling her slender throat and winding in her hair.

Rey reached up, clasping her hands around the back of his neck, seeking ground Ben wouldn’t give her. One thing had to be made perfectly clear to his little minx: tonight would not leave either of them wanting; they wouldn't part ways hot and aroused to the edge of pain. Tonight the teasing ended.

A whimper vibrated against his palm, and finally Ben broke away, massaging her neck instead. "We're going to have a good night, aren't we?"

Refocusing her attention on the blank page before her, Rey tapped out two lines in a flurry. "That kiss got the writing mojo flowing."

He didn't bother to read it. Poems and pretty words were the least of his interests this evening. But if it eased her in, he'd humor her for a short time.

Ben walked to the other side of the room, sitting on the sofa facing her. He studiously unlaced his Oxfords, setting each shoe aside. Then each sock. "I want you to write about it. Me." His red tie adorned the sofa cushion next. "Us."

Thick lashes fluttered up and fanned around wide, hazel eyes. "I want to focus on just you for now. Capture you in all your glory." Her cheeks pinkened as she bit into her bottom lip, watching him remove his shirt. "Will you show me?"

She wanted to wax poetic about his cock? Okay, that was kinda fucking hot. The kiss had made him stir, but her expression—innocence mixed with intent—did something else to his blood altogether. He could feel it thicken in his veins, traveling south to pool.

"Take off the robe."

Rey cocked her head, as if considering what his response would be if she declined, but she decidedly set the bowl of strawberries on the desk and stood, untying the belt.

Red. An absolute vision. Ben thought he might combust right there in his pants.

"We match." She smiled at his discarded tie. "Do you like it?"

_Like it?_ She had to be fucking with him to ask a question like that. But her earnest expression made him wonder.

Ben's eyes meandered down her pert breasts and slim, toned waist. Half her belly button was concealed by the set's matching garter belt. Unlike the online ad, Rey had no flower to hold strategically over the open crotch. She didn't attempt to hide from his gaze at all. In fact, she sat back and raised one foot to the seat, showing him she'd taken full advantage of the hotel salon's waxing menu.

"Sweet fuck," Ben murmured, hardly noticing he'd dropped his pants and underwear in a crumbled pile on the floor. "You picked my favorite."

"I've never worn anything like this."

"It would be all you wore in a perfect world." When she laughed and ducked her head, he continued. "Don't tell me no one's ever told you how astonishingly, unbelievably gorgeous you are?"

"Oh, I've heard it," she supplied. "From the shriveled dicks at work. A few earnest guys at dive bars. My high school—"

He cut her off. "Shitheads trying to get in your pants, I get it."

One eyebrow rose. "Including yourself?"

Licking his lips, his eyes dropped. "I don't see any pants to get into, so no."

Rey's fingers played with the band of her thigh highs, trailing up as if confirming she was barely dressed. "Do I get to keep them?" she asked quietly."They make me feel sexy, powerful. You won't take them back, will you?"

His mind swelled with carnal thoughts that put him next to a caveman on the basest scale. The urge to spring up, carry her off, and claim her as his own triggered a spike of adrenaline laced with pure testosterone.

"Baby, I'm not looking to take anything from you," Ben assured her, wrapping his thumb and index finger around the root of his cock and moving them up the shaft. "I'm here to give you everything you never knew you wanted."

If her little squirm was any indication, she liked that promise. His cock throbbed more insistently, a bead growing from his slit at the thought of her slicking the chair beneath her. He could fuck her on that chair, that desk. Plow her into the plush sofa cushions or tear up her knees on the area rug. Maybe he should trap her against a wall, her slender frame stuck between two hard surfaces, unable to get away.

He threw back his head and swore at the ceiling. "Looking at you inspires me to do bad things. Depraved things."

A moan pushed past her lips. “Would you elaborate?”

“Again?" He'd murmured all the filthy things he wanted to do to her on their last night at the tavern so she could prepare herself.

Her response was a sustained hum. “Please? For the sake of _The Chronicle_?”

She’d settled on the title of the volume the same night he’d given her the suite’s key card. Every poem she’d written for or about him she’d set aside in a folio-style journal. "Your personal epic," she’d called it. She’d weave his narrative in the style of the ancient greats, the ones she’d studied in school. He would be the next Odysseus. The next Beowulf. The next king.

As much as the inflated role fought that voice in his head—the one that repeated how he’d never be good enough to be admired, loved—Ben wasn’t focused on his written legacy now. His dick was what needed stroking, not his ego.

“Why don’t you come over here and tell me what you remember?” he countered. “Whisper it in my ear.”

Chestnut waves dusted her shoulders as she shook her head gently. “I was too distracted to remember now.”

“Rey—”

The metallic keys drowned him out as she set to work, narrating from her perch. “I'm pinned down. Legs and arms spread wide, tacked like wings. Wriggles couple with screams. Under a magnifying glass, you calm me with your touch, kill me as you breathe the words _pretty girl_.”

Ben groaned, stroking himself with more speed, more force. Her metaphors were trite, sure, but oddly erotic. “What else?”

Rey looked up from the paper, teeth in her bottom lip and one brow hiked, cheeks flushed at his display. “Sound good?”

“Yes.”

She smiled. “Now let me tell you what I want to do to you.”

Her second poem could only be described as literal, carnal. The images were rooted in real sensations, real sounds. When she spoke about putting her mouth on him, choking on his dick as she sucked, Ben closed his eyes and felt it happen. Though it was his hand, it was somehow her lips and tongue and hollowed out cheeks. He could feel his tip nudge the back of her throat.

Ben swore, shooting a load all over his stomach.

The keystrokes stopped, and over the drum of his heartbeat he heard the drag of skin on the acrylic chair. Peering through his lashes, he caught sight of her on the floor just as one hand curled over his knee. Her shoulders nudged apart his thighs, making room for the rest of her. The hand on his knee traveled north, fingers swiping at his mess.

“I take this as the best compliment anyone’s ever given me.” She pressed herself up into a kneel and bent her head to lick his abdomen.

Startled by the bold move, Ben’s fingers wound into her hair, lifting her away to meet her eyes. Her gaze was darker than he remembered and missing the shyness he expected from someone with no experience. “Aren’t you a virgin?”

Her tongue clicked at the question. “Would it change things? Would you treat me differently?"

"Maybe." It should. It really should.

"Don't," she begged. "Please, Ben. I want you to fuck me just like you said."

He used his other hand to squeeze her jaw. "So you do remember."

Her breath hitched as she admitted, "I do. Every word."

A smug grin pulled at the corner of his mouth. He decided to remind her of his plans anyway. “When I'm done, you’re going to be so fucking disoriented you won't know which way is up. Because I’m going to fuck you until you’re dazed, baby. Is that something you’d like?”

She whined—a desperate little noise that made his cock twitch. The pads of her fingers dug into his hips. “Yes.”

_Fuck yes_ he heard in his head, unsure if his mind had supplied the first word or not. Acting on her consent, Ben gripped her elbows and lifted her to an upright position along with him. He drew her close and kissed her with fire, letting her understand he wouldn’t back down from his promise, that he was in control now.

Breaking away, he held her at arm’s length to take in the lingerie he’d chosen. The cups seemed to be a size too small, or perhaps they were designed to make breasts overflow the lace. Rey had hardly anything to push up in the first place. Each small swell could fit in his mouth, and he took the time to do it, teasing each nipple with the edge of his teeth through the transparent mesh.

Her hands cradled his head against her chest, raking through his hair. They scrabbled at the tops of his shoulders, nails raking lines down his arms. Quick breaths made her breasts rise and fall beneath his mouth despite the way she arched into him.

When she was nice and worked up, he detached himself and pushed her toward the seat he’d vacated. “Kneel,” he instructed. “Ass in the air for me, sweetheart.”

Though she complied, Ben used her left ankle to pull her legs further apart, spreading them wide.

“Ben, I—” she began, tossing her hair over one shoulder and looking up at him. The sight nearly sent him into cardiac arrest. “I want to watch while you fuck me.”

His index finger hooked under her right garter, moving up and down the taut strap. “You will,” he assured her as he dropped to one knee and palmed a rounded asscheek. “But I want to see how wet you are for me. Make sure you’re ready.”

“I am.” But she dropped her head between her arms and submitted to his perusal.

She wasn’t lying. Without touching her, he could see how ready her body was. Beautifully pink and slick. Still, Ben had to quell his curiosity and used his tongue to taste her. Rey’s hips jerked forward at the foreign sensation, but Ben was relentless in his pursuit. He relished in the noises she made when he sucked and nipped and licked. When her legs began to shake, he inserted his middle finger to pluck at the tension building inside of her.

“Ben.” His name lost shape and form in tandem with his focused attention.

She was tight but pliant, soft but demanding. Two fingers, he found, were her limit. For now. They were enough to make her cry out, back arching and collapsing in some lewd variant of a yoga flow.

“Take me on the bed.”

It wasn’t a request. It should turn him off; he was the one in control here and the one who made the decisions. But. The way she slowly twisted and corrected her trembling limbs to face him, the way her eyes pleaded and her mouth parted at the sight of his new erection, eased his ego. Pleasuring her had had a greater impact than he thought possible in so short a time. It was like he was in his early twenties again, able to spring back for a second round with hardly any lag time; he hadn’t felt so virile in years. And all because of this sweet girl who he’d nearly talked himself out of touching.

Well, fuck discretion and limits. She was his now, or would be soon.

“Please, Ben.”

Truth be told, he didn’t want to fuck her on the sofa anyway. He wanted to feel every part of her, skin to skin. She’d written the poem herself: he’d pin her down and transform her into a beautiful mess. “C’mere, pretty girl.”

He scooped her up and carried her into the suite’s master bedroom, smiling at the tender little pecks she trailed up the side of his neck. Sweet and innocent kisses that she might have bestowed on a high school crush once.

Ben tossed her onto the middle of the mattress like she weighed nothing, following after her and spreading her legs once again. Not liking the crotchless underwear any longer, he twisted the bands around his fingers and yanked until they snapped and fell away, giving him unimpeded access. Growling with need, he gripped his shaft and put the other hand on her hip to draw her close.

And then he was inside her. One nudge, one push. That was all it took to slide into bliss.

“Oh, shit,” he huffed.

He’d forgotten a condom. Or to ask if she took a prescription. Never in his life had he been so careless. How the hell had it slipped his mind, especially with the election next year? He couldn’t afford a scandal. His brain warred with his body until Rey’s fingers walked up his spine, along his neck, and stopped on his cheeks.

“You feel so good,” she murmured, rubbing away the sweat at his temples with her thumbs. One at a time, she hoisted and locked her legs near the small of his back. “Bury it deep. Give me all of that thick cock.”

He couldn’t have resisted even if he’d wanted to.

“Such a filthy mouth,” he scolded as he lifted his hips and plunged back into her. "Tell me what you need, baby."

Rey keened beneath him, hitching her hips to take in more of him. “I need you to fuck me.”

And he did. All notions of gentleness and possible first times evaporated. There was no mercy in his pace, no compassion in his thrusts. Wild animals fucked with more civility than he did as he rutted into Rey’s warmth. Every shout, every claw mark she left on his back, drove him to reckless abandon.

He felt flushed with life and masculine energy. His peak was in sight.

“Faster.”

The request struck him like a slap. Sharp and sudden. He brought his mouth up from the crook of her neck where he’d marked her skin with a reminder of their evening, one she could admire in the mirror after showering. The look on her face made the tendons in his neck bulge.

Smiling. A breezy, sunshine-warm smile. She looked like she might be asking him to spin her faster on a playground carousel, not pound her into the bed until the frame squeaked and the headboard smacked against the wall.

_What the fuck?_

She should be begging for him to come so her cunt could recover from his brutal pace. How the hell could she be staring up at him like he was going easy on her?

“You want it faster, baby?” He planted his hands on either side of her head, pressing himself up until only their lower halves were joined. With the leverage, he’d give her what she wanted. She’d be crying, screaming for him to finish. Fresh blood rushed to his groin at the thought. This wasn’t over yet. He’d show her what Ben Solo was made of.

Sweat slicked his skin, dripping from his forehead onto the pillow beneath her. Before getting sidetracked at Top-It-Off Tavern, Ben went to gym every night. He had a personal trainer on retainer whenever he craved an extra challenge. And yet, he was starting to feel the strain in his arms, his back.

Rey’s stamina seemed endless. She met each thrust now, hips canting and pushing against him with more ferocity than when they began. Her hands reached up and wound around his neck, fingers twirling into his damp hair. Unsure how much longer he could actually keep going like this, he felt a prick of relief when she clenched around him.

“Delicious," she sang. "Give me everything.”

It was the last thing she said before coming, spasming in uncontrolled bursts around his cock.

Ben managed to thrust twice more, burying himself as deep as he could before spilling into her, pouring out every ounce of energy he had left. His arms quaked. He didn’t have the strength to brace himself above her any longer, nor did he have the ability to collapse to his side. Instead, as he fell apart, his body covered hers entirely.

Somehow, he could still feel himself coming and Rey’s cunt seizing whatever it could from his aftershocks. He’d never come so hard or so long in his damn life.

He wanted to say something, to check that he wasn’t smothering her beneath all his bulk, but couldn’t seem to speak. His breathing had become more wheeze than pant, and concentrated effort to correct it seemed to do fuck all. Maybe he was having a heart attack. Maybe he was too damned old to fuck around like he was twenty-one again. Rey had drained him.

A girlish giggle made his overheated blood turn to ice. Two hands squirmed between their bodies and splayed across his pecs. With a delicate push, he found himself rolling to his back. It was as if he weighed nothing at all. Ben’s dick slipped from her in the process, flaccid and spent. It wasn’t the only part of him that had gone limp.

He couldn’t move.

* * *

His pretty eyes went wide. Rey clicked her tongue and swept damp tendrils from his forehead. “Shh,” she cooed. "It's okay. From what I’ve heard, this is normal.”

When she retracted her hand, his alarmed gaze followed. Rey held out her hand as she’d seen some women do when admiring an engagement ring. There was no huge, exorbitantly priced rock shining on her finger, but there was an unmistakable glow. Golden light shone beneath her skin despite the drawn curtains and twilight hours beyond them.

Rey rubbed one hand up her opposite arm and across her chest, breathing deep. The scent of sex and sweat mixed with fear like a yummy cocktail she could bathe in. Taking pity on Ben, she leaned down and gently kissed his cooling cheek. The temperature of his skin made her realize she had to work fast. Her window was small and shrinking rapidly.

“You just relax,” she told him. “I’ll be right back.”

Bouncing from the mattress, she skipped from the room, every cell in her body filling with air and light and heat. She was thankful her typewriter was so heavy, or she might have floated away from the excess energy in her veins.

Lugging the appliance and _The Chronicle_ back into the bedroom, she set it on the nightstand nearest to Ben and typed. This was her first true masterpiece—a piece of art she'd cherish for years to come and revisit frequently. Ben made it possible. Without him, her work would be lifeless.

As she neared the end of her final stanza, the softest whimper tickled her ears. Rey gently shushed him again, noting the translucent appearance of his skin. Her power was taking full effect. She stroked his cheek, assuring, “I promise this won’t hurt.”

The worry etched in his expression said he didn't believe her.

"I'm just tucking you away, love. It's not permanent. We'll be able to share this feeling again. I'm going to keep you safe." She patted the folio. "Right in here."

This was her first attempt at transference. Erasure was as easy as gobbling down a plate of food with no crumb left behind. Her current endeavor was more like taking apples and making them into pie. It required skill and effort, attention to detail. She wanted to keep him wholly intact for future feasts.

More importantly, Rey didn’t want to cause Ben pain, not when he’d given her so much pleasure, so much nourishment.

Rey cracked her legs apart and found the true magic, the binding element needed to seal this moment in time. Dipping her fingers inside herself with a moan, she withdrew what she needed and touched it to the last page like a piece of ending punctuation, though the ellipses was the trick. It left things open.

She whispered words into the air that had made immortality possible long, long ago: "So long as men can breathe or eyes can see, so long lives this and this gives life to thee."

A soft breeze tickled the hairs around her face and lifted several loose pages in the journal. The cozy down comforter slowly puffed up again before her eyes, bearing no weight.

Releasing the last paper from the carriage, she flipped it upside down, then set it on top of the other poems she’d written and compiled about Ben, _of_ Ben. She secured the rear flap of the folio and carefully turned it over, hugging it to her chest.

Rey stood and yawned, limbs finally feeling the weight of gravity once more. She lowered herself to the now-empty bed, clutching Ben close over her heart. For the first time, she was full, happy, and sated. In moments, her eyes drifted shut, visualizing the final line of Ben's story:

_So he continued. . ._

**Author's Note:**

> An overly honest, very spoilery, summary of this fic in. . .
> 
> 3\. . . 
> 
> 2\. . .
> 
> 1\. . .
> 
> Ben meets Rey and they have instant chemistry. What Ben doesn't know is it's because Rey is a succubus and wants to feed on him. They have sex, and then Rey reveals what she is, keeping Ben as her own.


End file.
